Advice on getting baby to sleep in a cot

I HAVE a couple of friends who have just had their first babies and are going through the whole ‘getting them to sleep’ minefield.

No one can adequately describe what it’s like to suddenly have your entire life ruled by a squawking little person who simply won’t do what you think they should be doing.

Until you’ve endured sleep deprivation – the proper sleep deprivation of a new parent, rather than pulling a few all-nighters on the beers – then you just can’t empathise enough.

The new parent is bombarded with advice. They might seek it out by investing in a ridiculous amount of contradictory parenting ‘help’ books. They might have well-meaning relatives and friends who tell them it HAS to be done this way or that.

They might have very clear ideas before the birth that are forgotten when the squidgy, delicious, adorable, utter nightmare of a baby rocks up. And as for twins or triplets? You parents deserve sainthoods.

So, you’ve just about got used to a feeding routine.

You start wondering, 10, maybe 12 weeks in, perhaps I should try using the cot?

And then they scream the house down when you do.

For the first six, ten, 12 weeks, you’ve been letting them fall asleep on you, or in a Moses basket in the front room, where you zone out in front of the telly with exhaustion. I know this, because I did it myself.

Our eldest didn’t ever go down in his cot awake because we never really tried in the early weeks. Bloke would have a ritual where he did that strange, shuffling sway of the new Dad, babe on shoulder, humming to some weird American Indian chanting CD.

We’d get Jed to drop off in our arms and then delicately, put him down in his cot asleep, terrified he’d wake again. The swaying embrace is what he’d got used to.

By the time number two came along we perfected a bouncy chair technique to get him to sleep. So he didn’t like going in the cot either.

By number three, you’d think we’d have learned. But Billy wouldn’t sleep on his back, even if we put him down asleep. He’d wake up immediately and wail. So we did something we’d been told not to by the health visitors. We’d lie him on his side, sometimes propped up with a rolled up cellular blanket along his back to stop him rolling.

It seemed to work, and as they got bigger all the boys slept on their tummies. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone this, because it was such a no-no with regards to advice on reducing the chances of cot-death.

When we wanted to start trying to get them to go to sleep at a specific time it was painful, and upsetting, and knackering. But we had to keep trying. We had to keep going in, stroking their hair, leaving them to wail with anger at not being picked up. And eventually, after many nights of sitting guiltily outside the door, hearts breaking as they cried, exhausted, thinking it would never end, they got into a routine, and they slept.

Yes, sometimes, we’d put them down too late, or let them fall asleep on us watching TV, but mostly, putting them down and letting them cry worked. It felt bad, but it worked. We were less knackered, they were less knackered, and soon we had three happy boys who would all go to bed at allotted times and sleep through the night. And they still do, 13, 12 and seven years on.

Then Baby Bonnie came along. If she fell asleep, we put her down in her cot. When it was nap or sleep-time, we put her down awake in her cot and she cooed and babbled her own way to sleep. It was remarkable how different it could be.

There’s a whole heap of debate about trying to establish a sleep routine. In an ideal world, and you may be lucky, you can put a newborn baby straight into a cot from birth and establish some sort of schedule for eating, playing and sleeping. If that’s you, then I envy you.

There tends not to be a one-solution-fits-all with babies.

There are tricks you can try.

I didn’t bath my babies every night, but a nightly wash and a soft sing-song before putting them down makes them recognise what’s coming. (We’ve been singing ‘My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean’ each night for three long years.)

Putting a t shirt you’ve worn in the cot can help, as they ‘smell’ you nearby.

After a feed, wind them, wind them, and wind them again. Keep their room dark, they need it as a sleep trigger.

When they fight sleep, stroke their eyebrows. It makes them close their eyes.

Don’t let them into your bed when it’s sleep time. By all means, bring them in when the alarm’s about to go off, but don’t let them get used to sleeping with you each night. It will not end well. You will soon have confused and angry toddlers sharing your bed. Your bed should be for you, and their bed for them. We had a gate across bedroom doors not just to stop them falling down stairs, but to keep them out of our room.

After all these years, I still check on my babies every night, replacing their kicked off covers, putting legs back in beds, marvelling at how big they’ve got, not missing those sleepless nights.

Routines don’t really need to be established in the first couple of months. You just go with the flow. But if you can make the cot a familiar place at the earliest opportunity, then life should, should, get easier. I wish you luck, patience and sleep.

 

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Exercise for pre-schoolers should be part of parental playtime – find me three hours extra a day

IT seems ironic that although my three-year-daughter runs rings around me and never keeps still, I couldn’t ever claim that she gets three hours exercise EVERY day.
Yet this is the latest piece of Government advice to stop pre-schoolers from becoming obese and suffer poor brain development.
And it’s not just three-year-olds. Babies and newborns are included in the guidelines to be published this week.
Exercise doesn’t have to mean we’re lining up our toddlers on mini treadmills or insisting they do a lap of the garden and 20 press-ups before being spoon-fed their porridge.
But it does, according to the Government’s new Chief Medical Officer Dame Sally Davies, mean more active play to make children ‘huff-and-puff’ more.
We shouldn’t be regarding outside play and jumping about like bonkers as a ‘treat,’ it should just be something they just do, everyday.
Reading about this guidance over the weekend made me think, isn’t three hours every day quite a lot, and pretty tricky, unless you only have one child and nothing else going on in your life?
I don’t disagree with the idea, quite the opposite.
We park our children in highchairs, car seats and buggies for their own protection but a lot of the time it’s for our own convenience.
We all know you can get somewhere much faster if your toddler is in a pushchair instead of stopping and starting while they decide to pick up tiny stones (or worse), simply refuse to hold your hand or move an inch.
And walking to school may not be practical when you have to drive several miles to work once you’ve dropped them off.
And a baby in a bouncy chair watching Cbeebies while you run the vacuum around is a godsend. When babies are small its hard enough to keep up with the feeds, the sleeps and the colic without a regulation three-hour’s wriggle time.
“Go swimming with baby, walk to school instead of taking the car” says the advice. “Turn off the TV and walk to the park. Let your baby kick and roll or have ‘tummy time.”
Tummy Time is where you put a new baby who can hold their head up on the floor on their stomach to stretch and try to roll. Often they just get cross, grunt and thump their face into the carpet.
There will be plenty of parents out there who walk everywhere with their kids, have large gardens and go to the park daily.
But then there are the rest of us, whose routines are tightly controlled by rapid car journeys between work, schools, clubs and chores.
Apparently, a survey by the University of Worcester showed parents wildly overestimate the amount of exercise we think our kids get. Nine and ten-year olds actually average about half an hour a day, while we parents kid ourselves that they get eight-times that amount.
Our youngest two are top-class fidgeters who happily run around in circles like puppies chasing their tails. They have at least a couple of hours playtime on school or nursery days, but some days not much more at home.
In theory our two eldest get daily exercise by cycling and walking to school or doing sports clubs. But there are days when they get driven everywhere, sit about watching TV and do very little activity (unless you count answering back).
You see a lot of very chubby kids out there whose parents allow them to eat whatever they like, whenever they like, and sit on their backsides playing computer games from 3.30pm to way past what I would see as a reasonable bedtime. It’s a minefield.
This is a time when authorities are cutting budgets on things like playgrounds, sports fields, Sure Start schemes and play leaders. Our green spaces are being sold off for housing that no one wants.
There’s no doubt that we should be getting our children more active, but the edict of a prescriptive three-hours a day might just panic the middle-class neurotics into paying for expensive clubs, while people who might actually need some help just see it as more Government nannying and reach for the remote. And a biscuit.

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To wee or not to wee, that is the question (you may not have any choice about)

CLICK off the page now if you don’t want to hear about my internal organs. *Checks to see if they’ve gone*

Right. Some serious advice for mothers, mothers-to-be and even those thinking about sprogging.

Having kids messes up your body.

Maybe not straight away, maybe not even for a few years. But eventually, after all that  carting about of small human beings inside and out, your body conks out.

It might be a touch of repeated sciatica, where a trapped nerve renders you in immovable agony. It may be just saggy skin that just hasn’t the elasticity of youth to ping back into place regardless of how much you exercise.

Or it may be that your internal organs start giving into gravity and heading south.

Yes, I am talking about the huge but hardly discussed problem of stress incontinence.

I am hardly proud, and not at all amused, about having to go to the doctors because I can’t jump up and down, skip or play Kinect sports without worrying I might have a little involuntary wee.

I can’t be at the allotment for more than an hour without my brain/bladder teaming up to make me believe I need to pee so urgently I may need to discreetly use my daughter’s car potty.

It’s the kids nagging me to go to the loo before we leave the house: “Mum, have you been? We won’t be stopping again for a while. . .”

I’d ignored the pelvic floor exercises warning after giving birth 13 years ago, and when I got a cold, I got more than just a runny nose.

Three more pregnancies and I won the pelvic floor battle. I could clench for England.

But three years on it seems the ground floor is heading for the basement.

Intensive pelvic floor exercises have been prescribed – two sets, six times a day – and surgery has been threatened. Six times a day? It’s hard to remember to do them.

If you are one of the millions of mothers who has to plan their journeys around toilet stops for themselves, rather than their kids, stop blaming it on your age. Get thee to a doctor while they can still do something to help.

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Celebrating booze-o’clock is not great parenting

ANOTHER week, another survey.
This time it’s the shock-horror quelle-surprise revelation that children who regularly see their parents get hammered are more likely to binge drink themselves.

Well, that was the headline anyway.

If you actually look at the detail, the Joseph Rowntree Foundation report also found the influence of FRIENDS was the most significant factor in childhood drinking, as the likelihood of youths drinking to excess more than doubled if they spent more than two nights a week
socialising. (Especially if parents don’t know where they are.)

I can’t remember a single time I ever saw my parents drunk, even though they have always been regular pub-goers.

I can, however, remember the first swig of cider I had in the village playing field and the first Dubonnet and lemonade which was sneaked out of a pub for me by an older kid. I can also vividly remember the first time I saw someone vomiting into a wicker waste bin at a party we were both too young to be at. My parents weren’t to blame for my teen drinking, I was.

The parenting rules on booze are simple.
Don’t get paralytic in front of your kids. Don’t let them think that life can’t go on if you don’t have a glass of wine by tea-time. Educate them about the true consequences of booze/fags/drugs/sex (which may indeed be interconnected) and try to keep tabs on where they are, who they are with and what they are up to, without turning their lives into a police state.

Simple, see?

(I’m sure this will come back to haunt me as my children all hit their teens).

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Strike day can end up costing more than you think

WHAT did you do about strike day then? Take a day’s holiday or ring in sick? Go to work as usual and leave the kid/s with relatives? Take a day off unpaid? Go to work and pay £20+ for childcare?

In fact, wasn’t it much like one of many teacher training days, when we have to run around trying to work out where to put everyone?

It was only seven-year-old Billy who found himself with a random day off in our house. Bonnie went to
nursery, and Jed and Dougie’s two secondary schools didn’t close, much to their disgust.

It wasn’t half as dramatic as the school strikes I remember in the 1980s. Back then the strikes were frequent, sometimes three days on the trot, occasionally half-days (which meant a full-day if you lived out in the sticks and had an hour-long bus journey each way) and often random.

For example, I remember not being able to do any sporting competitions or training at a point when I was Sport-Billy-Hilly, because the teachers wouldn’t supervise any extra-curricular activities. Maddening.

The strikes dragged on and the teachers lost a lot of public sympathy, but the Teachers Pay and Conditions Act was passed in 1987, paving the way for a lot of the deals that today’s teachers wouldn’t have otherwise had.

So do strikes work? Yes, maybe, sometimes, but not without a great deal of public discontent, often fuelled by misinformation.

Meanwhile, away from the moaning placard waving educators and whining envy of private sector workers, I took a day off and Bill and I formed a plan for what we would do with our day alone together, a rare event. Any suggestions had to involve leaving the house.

Go to a toy shop?” he asked, hopefully.
No. It would be better still if you think of something that doesn’t cost any money.

Erm . . . go to the cinema?”

Eventually, after much negotiation, we ended up at, er, the shops.

I know, I know, but Billy wanted to use his own pocket-money to buy some weird wristband things that he’s seen his older brothers wearing. After his cash ran out I needed a coffee and somehow ended up with milkshakes and cake and a £10 bill from the aptly named Costa. Ouch.

Then we found a huge sale on at Blacks and I bought far too many pairs of shoes for the men and boys of the house (although more than half price). Double ouch.

MacDonalds a ‘treat’? Makes your kids look weird

And with only a short time before Bonnie needed collecting from nursery, we had an emergency stop at MacDonalds.

I should point out here that any time we eat at MacDonalds it is because it’s an emergency (ie, we have run out of time to eat anywhere else).

I have the middle class paranoia that if I feed my offspring MacDonalds I am a Bad Parent. I refuse to call it a ‘treat’ because it’s just not.

I stubbornly boycotted MacDonalds for 12 years, until Bloke and I were stranded on holiday in France and the only place open to feed our squawking toddlers was La Maison de MacDonalds. It pains me to admit it was a delicious breakfast.

From that point on I felt a complete hypocrite. Especially as it was usually my bad parenting which literally drove us back time and again for Happy Meals (and fresh coffee) that you don’t even have to get out of the car for. MacDonalds is Prozac for the disorganised.

Billy and I did have a lovely, materialistic and expensive day together,which he was quite happy ended with wrist-bands, burger and chips and a weird Panda mask.
Next time though, it will be cheaper to pay for the childcare. . .

 

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De ja vu repost of Flathampton review as it returns to Derngate

THE innovative and interactive show Flathampton is returning to Royal & Derngate in Northampton from July 15-30. The show is for children of all ages and their families but there are a couple of shows for teens/adults only.

Weekday term-time performances are ideal for early years (under 6s) and their families and along with schools and nurseries (tickets £6 each), while weekend and school holiday performances are suitable for children of all ages with their families (tickets £7 each). To check times and prices or to book, call the Box Office on 01604 624811 or visit http://www.royalandderngate.co.uk.There are also two special evening performances, with a grown up twist, on Thursday 28 and Friday 29 July for teenagers and adults only (tickets £10).

Review, Flathampton, Royal & Derngate to Saturday 17 July, 2010

ROYAL & Derngate should be applauded for its determination to provide innovative, engaging theatre for pre-schoolers. It’s always going to be unpredictable.

This time it’s a huge production, with a larger audience. Flathampton uses the entire Derngate auditorium, with the seats removed. The whole space has become a giant children’s playmat.

Like previous shows, Knit-Wits, Wish-Wash and Where’s the Bear, Flathampton is directed by Northampton’s own Dani Parr and doesn’t involve toddlers sitting wriggling on grown-up laps. Everyone’s part of the ‘show.’

You’re greeted by the bus conductor in the foyer and taken up and down stairs and through to Flathampton, where a story emerges. Everything in Flathampton is flat, until former resident Kate arrives and converts the horizontal set into a vertical, 3D one. It’s like watching dozens of under-sixes make a town from baby-flat-pack.

There are actors in character controlling an area of the town – the children can DJ at the music-store, dress-up at the make-over shop, visit the post-office, get money from the Flathampton Bank to spend at the grocer’s and treat their parents at the hospital.

It’s weird, it’s chaos, but the kids adored it.

Our two-year old and six-year old were baffled at first (too long queuing for the bus) but were soon running around trying everything and talking to the characters. After an hour and a half they had to be prised out of the theatre.

Try and get a ticket if you can, embrace your inner-child, and enjoy a visit to a show that’s anything but flat.

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Why our family gave up on Glastonbury

HOW many of us watching the annual Glastonbury mudfest were thinking, actually, I’m quite happy seeing it from the sofa, thanks?

That’s quite hard for some of us to admit. Bloke and I were regular Glasto-goers in our pre-parenting years, but have only been once since.

And it’s not one I’d go to again with the kids.

Something about seeing those pictures of muddy, knackered-out little urchins being dragged around by adults either DETERMINED to have a good time, or looking as though they were about to cry, just made me think, take them home, have a bath, watch the rest on TV. Leave them with Grandma next time.

The Glastonbury site is just vast. Nothing you see on telly can actually make you understand how exhausting and confusing it can be if you’re a grown-up and relatively sober, let alone a kid. Even in good weather.
I think the next Glastonbury-goers from our house are more likely to be our elder two boys, and even then I’m thinking “not until you’re 18.” The idea terrifies me, but I guess it won’t be long before I don’t have much of a say.

But in the meantime there are festivals that are great to visit with kids, and for the last few years we’ve attended the likes of Womad and the excellent Camp Bestival with the entire brood.

Bonnie had been to three festivals before her third birthday. 

You must bear in mind that going to a festival with family in tow isn’t like going to one on your own, where the only person you’re responsible for is, er, you.
At a family festival you can still enjoy the live acts, the music, the outdoorsy freedom and even a cider or two, and your children can do the same (minus the cider). You let them stay up later than usual and experience music and art in a way that our generation couldn’t.

But you also have to admit that when it’s dark, muddy, chucking down with rain and blowing a gale, its kinder to everyone if you head back to relative safety and comfort of a tent or camper. It might feel defeatist but you’ll be grateful in the morning. Honest.

There’s plenty of firework finales or headline acts we’ve missed because we’ve just bottled it and stayed dry. That’s the beauty of going to a festival over a conventional music gig. If you miss something, you’ll catch something else that’s good too.

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They grow up, they do

IT has been a busy week. As well as sports day, we’ve had two fetes, a cricket tournament, a birthday party invite and a teacher training day.
That’s before we’ve even got to strike day.

Our eldest Jed was off on a day I was covering Cottesbrooke Plant Fair, so much to his disgust, I dragged him along for some work experience.

He, apparently, thought he’d be spending the day ‘planking’ with his mates. Planking is a bizarre fad for getting photographed lying – like a plank – in peculiar locations. Just type it into a computer and you’ll see what I mean.

Jed snaps

I told him planking couldn’t possibly be cool anymore as Gordon Ramsay was seen doing it, so he grumpily accompanied me.

Although he turned out to be a useful photographer, my goodness, he did spend the day grunting. I thought it was a stereotype but bless him, since his voice dropped he has become mumbling monosyllabic in company, and moaned all day about being hungry.

I enjoyed the fact it was just him and me for a rare day, and it reminded me how quickly that little baby in a pram grows up. Even if they still can’t communicate.

Meanwhile, Baby Bonnie has discovered facepaint. I’d managed to avoid it until now but she’s been done twice in a week.

It was easier with the boys. They cottoned on quite quickly that having facepaint means having to have your face scrubbed vigorously with a flannel at the end of the day.

But Bonnie has become fascinated by facepaint, particularly rainbows and butterflies. I’m going to have to make sure all my make-up is well out of her reach.

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First garlic? Major fail

image

My first garlic is rubbish. I suspected this might happen as I put it in very late, er, like March, and the best crops are planted in October-November.
If the cloves don’t get a decent blast of cold then they don’t split/multiply into a fat bulb. The ones I planted have hardly fattened up at all. Or split into bulbs.
Still, they are edible, and I’ve got another row which look much healthier.
Note to self: plant garlic in autumn not spring.

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School sports day and fete rolled into one competitive day

BILLY is limbering up for sports day and for once it isn’t going to take up my entire day.

I don’t want to sound uncaring, but this will be the first time in many years that I will only have one child to watch for, pelting up the field as fast as his little legs will carry him.

When all three boys were at the same primary school, sports day could last from 8.45am dropping off to 3.15pm picking up time, as their various events were staggered across the day.

Sports day can often be impossible if you work full-time, logistically challenging if you have pre-school off-spring in tow, and blessedly easy when you are freelance like me (although I did have to cancel a job).

Jed and Doug are now at secondary schools where there doesn’t seem to be sports day, or at least any
that parents are invited to. I can imagine the horror on the faces of our two eldest at the idea of me bowling up to their playing fields shouting ‘encouragement.’

I think they’d disown me without a moment’s hesitation. I’m a classic embarrassing mother. I still try and comb their hair and wipe muck off their faces with spit on a hankie. “Get off Mum. . .”

I’m mostly banned from watching them play rugby, football and cricket due to my inappropriate touchline bellowing. They still want me to provide the never-ending transport to and from venues, but they want the taxi driver to wait in the car.

Primary schools are the last bastion of parental pride for Unusual Sports. No eggs and spoons, but there are usually hula hoops, bean bags, buckets and balancing involved. And somehow, the teaching assistants manage to keep it all together as children have false starts, disappear in all directions and in some cases, refuse to move at all.

Billy Whizz

I’m looking forward to seeing little Bill Whizz, waving frantically as I’m peering across the field trying to pick him out of the hundreds of other green-t-shirted sports-dudes.

And then there’s the parents’ race.

Unless you are actually a PE teacher or a professional sportsman, you are entirely justified in running in the opposite direction to the starting line. I may be competitive but I’m not deluded.

Many schools are also killing two birds with one stone, by having sports day and the summer fete on the same day. Quite canny, when you think about it.

You have the guarantee of a load of parents on-site to watch their little darlings, and they can’t miss the fete if they’re already at it, eh?

If you time it to start before school ends, you can give the parents something to spend their cash on while waiting for their offspring to finish for the day.

Billy’s school’s cake stall is getting better every year, thanks to the re-birth of the humble cup-cake. They usually do a deal – six for £2 say – and by the time you’ve wandered about the playground browsing the other stalls, it seems they’ve all gone and you need to get more to take home.

School fetes are also a great way to have a clear-out. I can usually sneak out a bag or two of books (Bloke is a hoarder) and recycle all the unused Christmas gifts and raffle prizes you won at previous school fêtes. You may hope to get a decent bottle of wine or box of chocolates in the raffle this year, but don’t be surprised if you win your old stuff back again . . .

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